


Dance for Me and Me Alone

by honeyrot



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyrot/pseuds/honeyrot
Summary: done as a fill for a prompt on the disney kinkmeme, "Disney princess strip club AU. Frollo as a patron, Esmeralda as a stripper would rock my world. Also hoping for Cinderella as a naive young stripper debutante."





	Dance for Me and Me Alone

He had earned this. Claude reminded himself again and again, taking too long to circle the perimeter of the parking lot, his gnarled knuckles white on the steering wheel, palms clammy. The lot was dotted with cars, never enough to make him feel comfortably hidden but always too many to justify going home. They were here on a Monday night to watch the headliner. *His* headliner. They were here to watch *her* and it felt wrong that she should put on a show for some other ravenous crowd of hungry eyes and reaching hands without him there, wrong that her tantalizing little panties should be stuffed with other men’s greasy bills without Claude’s own crisp, clean twenty nestled against her in her hottest, sweetest place. She looked him in the eyes when she slid it there last time. He knew in her gaze that she wanted him too. She must. Why else would she tease him so?

And hadn’t he earned it, after all? Hadn’t he earned this one small, desperate respite from his boring existence, from the exhaustion that followed him and chewed at his weary ankles? He had done everything right, as always, had done everything expected of a man of faith, a man of principles. He had officially adopted the heinous child he had been pressured into taking by the church, (he had only planned to foster the little freak for six months or so, to bolster his appearances so no one looked too closely at the balance of the coffers, and was it his fault the boy’s whore mother was so desperate for a hit on visitation days that she was willing to do anything? Could any man resist such temptation? It wasn’t his fault she overdosed. It wasn’t his fault. The devil feeds on weakness.) and he was raising it like a son, like it was anything other than a sad, drooling burden on his mortal soul. Little Hugo was progressing well in the homeschool packets Claude dutifully picked up from the school board each month, but no amount of simple math or arts and crafts would ever fix the stain of fetal drug ingestion in his twisted face. Just as well. It reflected his mother’s sin. That’s what he told himself each time the guilt or the pity or the general malaise threatened to eat Claude alive, scraping him hollow a day at a time.

Finally he tore his huge, black, rambling car into a parking space with a sharp turn, squeezed the wheel, and went inside.  
It was as it always was inside, like stepping into a dream world. Some kind of purgatory of vice where time stood still, where it was always lively yet never changing. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, thriving in one of the last few legal places it can exist in public. The lights were low and hazy, illuminating the patrons with an otherworldly glow. Father Frollo recognized a few of the regulars, like the three low-level gangbangers in the animal print who would whoop at every girl, one who was female herself, one with the wildly lazy eye who licked his lips when a dancer arched close to them. An enormous businessman in a sleek striped suit at the back edge of the stage, watching intently with a lazy grin but never speaking, who tipped in large, single bills. Probably more than Claude could ever afford to pay, but that didn’t matter. He had a connection with her. He knew it.

Claude settled himself at a spot near the stage to wait for her. She wasn’t up yet, he had timed it right. He didn’t mind waiting through a subpar act to see her, it was better than being late, better than letting everyone else get the first look at her long, golden legs or the undulating muscles of her fit middle as she swayed. Esmeralda. His favorite. His only. His girl. *His*.

Another girl came out, a tall but emaciated blonde the DJ introduced as ‘Cindy Embers’. Claude sighed. She was willowy and lithe, but ultimately just a half-naked girl. His eyes drank in her jutting hips, the pale length of her body as it twirled to the music and the rising hoots of the excited crowd. Frollo didn’t smile at her. He spent his days dispensing niceties and pleasantries to people he couldn’t care less about in the name of politeness, he wouldn’t do it here. Not when his robes were off, not for an average-looking stripper in her glass-clear platforms and sparkly blue G-string who barely stirred him to half-erectness under his freshly pressed slacks. She looked to him for a tip and he leaned back in his chair impassively, denying her wordless offer of attention in her dance. Her face fell briefly but she continued on, turning to the ravenous table of three that cackled with excitement to have her near them. Frollo felt justified in his assessment of her. Esmeralda would never do such a thing. She knew attention had to be earned, had to be won, and she had done it. She was perfect.

And soon, little Cindy’s dance was over, and she scampered back behind the curtain with her sweaty bills like a mouse to its nest, making way on the stage for his girl. Esmeralda. The moment she broke through the curtain like the sun behind the clouds Claude was at full mast and full attention, leaning forward, eyes glittering with need as he watched her. She moved like a flame, her clever fingers poised at the end of her perfect wrists as she spun, writhed, bucked against nothing but the bass line. Her eyes connected with his once and that was all it took for him to know that he was right all along, she was here for him just as he was here for her. He fumbled in his pocket for his bill, unbroken into singles, unbroken like their silent bond, unbroken because he never needed to tip anyone else but her. His fingers brushed his strained erection as he did so and he seethed a caught breath between his teeth, needing to focus on her every move. He held out the bill for her and she took it, pursing her full, pillowy lips at him in a moue and blowing him a kiss that went straight to his chest and caught fire there. She slipped it into her panties just like he knew she would. Perfect. Perfection. 

He huffed, breathing heavy through the smoke and the arousal, his body and mind wanting to trap this moment and hold it, keep it still forever, wanting the rest of the club to disappear and leave only Claude and Esmeralda and their strip of stage alone, leaving her free to dance the dance for him he knew deep down she wanted. He was overwhelmed with the painful desire to possess her, to own her, to never let her dance for anyone ever again. He imagined as he always did how easy it would be, to find her after the show, to bring her to his car and never bring her back. Imagined her thick hair tousled with sweat, her attention on him from below, the sounds he could pull out of her, his fingers in the hot wet center of her, what it would be like to know she was his, forever. The instinctive rage he felt when she turned from him to show herself to the other side of the stage was deep and shameful but inescapable. He didn’t blame her. She had to give them all a show as long as this was her life. As long as she chose to be a loose, sinful whore, a jezebel for hire. As long as she continued to see in his eyes how much he wanted her and chose not to seek him out for the life she must know he could give her.

Then, her dance was over. She slipped behind the curtain and it felt like waking up from a dream. Waking up alone and sweaty and unsure in the darkness. Claude stood from his seat and walked quietly out to his car, making no eye contact, speaking to no one. He unlocked his car door and sat, fingers on the wheel, watching the back door of the club for several long minutes. Finally, he turned on the engine and began to drive home. Some night. But not tonight.


End file.
